A Predictable Epiphany
by LimpBiskit
Summary: And I return. Yes, it's another short.
1. Chapter 1

Title: A Predictable Epiphany  
Author: LimpBiskit  
Series: Sherlock BBC  
Pairing: John/Sherlock  
Rating: Warnings: Pre-Slash, awkwardness and Sherlock. Because the world _needs_ a warning for Sherlock.

There **will** be a companion piece to this, unless the response is along the lines of "GTFO newperson, and die a hundred deaths at the point of a spork."

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Somewhere between the kitchen table and the half-full sink, Sherlock Holmes realized that he must be in love.

The thought was so staggering that it literally gave him pause, his usually determined steps halting awkwardly as he struggled to work his mind through the reason for this glaring oversight.

Oh, the signs were there, no matter how he strove to rationalize this-fact-or-that, but he had believed that he possessed enough detachment to keep the inevitable at bay.

_Inevitable_.

Yes, he had known all along that there had been some kinship, some bit of attachment and an abiding _need_ for the other man's presence, but none of that mattered, did it? He needed many things, like air or water, the occasional meal.. But none of them were a detriment to his ultimate purpose, and so it would be with **this** thing, this insatiable desire for a singular human's continued companionship-

How completely ridiculous it seemed, when he allowed himself to run the sequence of events through to their natural end.

And it was so damnably _obvious_.

If it had been anyone else, he would have known it in an instant, by their secreted and sometimes-not glances, by the lingering scent of the other upon their bodies, the casual and careless invasion of personal space-

The signs were most **definitely** there.

So there he stood, a bit overwhelmed and feeling a right berk for the depth of his obtusity.

And worst of all, it was just so neat and compartmentalized, a foreseen conclusion to a predetermined situation that contained varying intricacies within its formulae, none of which would alter the outcome in the slightest.

God, how he hated to be predictable.

As he berated himself for such foolishness, a random bit of speculation rose to the surface. He may not be able to change the _what_ or the _who_, but he was in complete control of the _when_, _where_ and _how._

Reassured by the notion, he began to plot a course of action.

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That's it for the moment, make your opinion known :)  
X- Posted as per usual.  
Thanks for reading! 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: An Arbitrary Observation  
Author: LimpBiskit  
Series: Sherlock BBC  
Pairing: John/Sherlock  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Pre-Slash, Deviousness and Something Sherlock didn't know.  
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Sherlock Holmes was a man on a mission.

What had been so clear-cut and simple in his head had proven to be nigh impossible in real life, his every effort at introducing this-or-that element of his plans thwarted by what seemed like Fate itself.

Finally, driven to abject frustration by his lack of results, he fell back into what he did best. He reined in his natural impatience and began to _watch_, observing his all-unawares flatmate with the same level of dedication that he usually reserved for particularly intriguing murders.

The revelations were startling, to say the least.

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John Watson was clearly a creature of habit, his routines unwavering despite the admittedly random state of life within their shared home.

8AM most often found him bleary-eyed and silent, his movements almost mechanical as he brushed his teeth with short breaks to yawn, followed by a brisk shave and rinse before exiting the bathroom with considerably more energy.

8:15 had him in the kitchen, the day's first cup of tea being poured into waiting mugs that were always well-rinsed beforehand, his voice still roughened by sleep when he insisted that the younger man drink up before the liquid cooled.

8:30 was equally divided by preparations for work and reading the morning paper, depending on the day of the week. The days that required him to leave were somewhat annoying to the detective, who would much rather have had the man at his immediate disposal should he need him. The times that had him lingering over his tea and newspaper were infinitely better, and often Sherlock was surprised to find himself finishing the dregs of his own drink as he watched the blond engross himself in the trivialities of mundane life.

He was astonished to learn that although his Doctor was completely silent as he read, he more often than not would shape the words to himself, a habit that Sherlock had always found to be singularly irritating in others.

Watching John as he did it.. Was _not_ irritating. With only a mild effort, he could discern the contents of whatever article the other read, as well as summon up enough of the man's remembered voice to accompany the act, making it almost as if the other were actually reading the words aloud.

He wondered how he could have possibly missed such a thing, but quickly set the matter aside in favor of watching the movement of the blond's lips.

No, most **definitely** not irritating.

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Besides that bit of unexpected observation, the rest of the mornings held true to form, with the working ones being spent apart, full of boredom and random experiments, the nonworking ones wiled away with either more of the same or case work, with the added bonus of no boredom.

And John.

_John_ filled in the dangerous times, interrupting thoughts that narrowed and became darker if left to their own devices. He always seemed to **know** when the younger man had reached the inevitable breaking point, when he must remove himself from the presence of lesser creatures and work things through at the pace unique to him, until enough patience returned to allow for an attempt at translation for the rest of the world.

But those were still the _good_ days, the best days he could recall, and he wondered if that were also part of the reason for his growing obsession.

Obsession.

It was an ugly word to associate with oneself, but he knew that it was truly the only one that fit.

He was becoming completely obsessed with all things John.

And it was absurdly wonderful, even the knowledge that he'd apparently missed so very much about him. Nothing he'd learned or seen had curtailed his interest, laying to rest the lingering doubt that this was merely an uncommonly strong infatuation.

It was an obsession, yes, but it was one fed by nothing less than adoration.

So he continued his watchfulness into the afternoons, discovering yet another startling oversight after only three days.

_John preferred to avoid wasting napkins, if the situation allowed for it._

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Well, that's 2. Yes, I know it's unevenly longer than 1. Expect nearing 1k for 3. When I manage to get it done. Snowdays are breaking u my rhythm, I'm afraid.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: An Unscripted Rendezvous  
Author: LimpBiskit  
Series: Sherlock BBC  
Pairing: John/Sherlock  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Pre-Slash, Temptation and Something else Sherlock didn't know.  
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He never quite understood how it was that John could manage the impossible, but there it was.

This time it was a quaint little bistro that he had yet to visit, or truthfully even notice, and he couldn't help but feel oddly out of sorts in the almost sickly-sweet atmosphere of the place.

The tables were finely-made confections of wrought iron and pearly white paint, resembling nothing so much as usable Celtic knots atop intertwined vines of metal, the chairs surprisingly comfortable despite their similar fashioning.

He glanced away from the detailing edge he'd been studying, (ivy, of course it would be ivy-pattern to suit the place, clashed horridly with the waiter's plaid apron) and silently took in his real goal:

Doctor John Watson, in the midst of ordering tea and two different types of scones, obviously in hopes of tempting his companion with the illusion of variety. Although Sherlock preferred to keep his meals to a well-managed routine of necessity, he was often surprised by the older man's ability to coax him away from his set schedules with hardly any effort, a testament to his worthiness of the detective's scrutiny.

Pushing down his quirk of annoyance at the thought of being so handily outmaneuvered, he smirked when he realised that it was happening again, as the blond had quite clearly ordered for the both of them and immediately sent the waiter on his way, wary of the brunette's propensity to change such orders if given the opportunity.

Settling back in his chair, he sighed at the disgusting lack of anything resembling a case, hence this convenient but pointless excursion. Hearing the other clear his throat, he raised an eyebrow in askance, refusing to be the first to speak.

Apparently the man had nothing of great import to say, but his eyes spoke entire volumes on the subject of his companion's inability to make normal small talk. After a long moment, he snorted softly. "Well, go on.. I bet you've figured out at _least_ three of these people's life stories by now."

Allowing himself a small huff of amusement, the detective shrugged. "At least.. But nothing outstanding enough to explain. Was there a reason that you chose this particular establishment, other than the thought that I might be more likely to indulge if there were few people and sweets to be had?"

John laughed, genuinely pleased. "No, not really.. And sometimes a bloke wants to be able to eat his comfort foods without an audience." As if to punctuate the statement, their waiter returned with said comfort foods well in hand, his smile bland and unassuming as he poured their tea with practiced movements. Setting the assorted plates and cups within easy reach, he nodded silently, withdrawing as quickly as he'd arrived.

Sherlock hummed at the presented foodstuffs, noting that the other had wisely avoided anything approaching saccharine-sweetness in favor of more understated tastes, a plate each of drawn cream and raspberry scones lain between them at angles to their respective teacups. He only just managed to contain a smile when the older man appraised the two as seriously as he would a patient brought into his office, finally choosing a raspberry and taking a bite.

His meaningful look at the remaining ones was ignored, though Sherlock _did_ reach for his cup without a murmur of protest.

Watching the doctor take a second bite, he was suddenly aware of just how _tidy_ he was, his grip perfectly maintained on the delicate surface of the treat without crushing. He wondered briefly if it were perhaps due to his long-developed use of hands in his work, the ability to seek out points of tenderness and damage without causing additional pain. The thought was obliterated by an abrupt sound from the other, his expression faintly alarmed when a largish bit of his scone dropped away from the rest, the whipped filling dribbling sluggishly over his index and middle fingers before landing on the saucer beneath.

Smirking, Sherlock reached for the napkin dispenser, a casual remark about messy eating prepared and waiting.

A negative hum stilled him mid-way, the blond's head shaking to emphasize the sound as he swallowed. "Don't bother, it wasn't so much, really." With that said, he sat his slightly worse for wear scone on the saucer, lifting his hand to his mouth with clear intent.

Before the younger man could fully take in exactly what was happening, he found himself galvanized by the sight of his all-unawares flatmate licking carefully along the length of his index finger, the offending smear of berry-red giving way to the colorless sheen of saliva as his lips closed around the digit almost thoughtfully. His breath caught painfully in his throat as the process was repeated on the second, any hope of mental composure knocked flat when the blond flicked his gaze upward.

Something in his expression must have given a hint at the unusual incoherence of his thoughts, the man's brow furrowed slightly as he lowered his hand. "All right there, Sherlock..? I know it's not the best solution, but my hands _were_ clean, and I don't want to waste napkins if I don't have to."

Thanking every Deity in existence that the older man so often misinterpreted his meaning, the detective forced a shrug. "As long as you aren't bothered, I hardly think it matters.. Perhaps the moisture will leave less.. Residue."

He faltered infinitesimally as the other resumed his actions with a replying hum, the effect no less striking than previous. Taking a distracted sip of his tea, he struggled manfully to keep his hand steady, finally resorting to the simple expedient of placing the cup atop the table. He internally chided himself for his unexpected weakness, as he had done the same thing himself on occasion. Surely there was no good cause for the act to be so painfully erotic-

And again his thoughts went direct-post to the gutters as the blond _sucked_ at his own skin, eyes downcast in concentration as his cheeks hollowed slightly.

Oh, glorious Bloody _Hell_.

Dragging his mind into something of a working order, he seized upon the ultimate solution, congratulating himself preemptively as he enacted his brilliant plan.

Faced with the penultimate embodiment of human lust, Sherlock Holmes did what any rational, desperate man would do in his situation.

He upended his cup into his lap.

And then proceeded to screech in a most unflattering manner as the hot liquid seeped thoroughly into the material of his pants, shoving his chair backward with almost enough force to send him sprawling as he swiped ineffectually at his stinging legs.

His companion immediately jumped to his feet, personal grooming forgotten as he rounded the table in full I'm-a-professional mode. Without the slightest trace of amusement, he dropped to his knees, already reaching for the brunette's sodden thighs with one hand as the other groped blindly toward the napkins on the table.

Seeing his one chance at avoiding all sorts of awkwardness rapidly slipping through his fingers, the detective batted at his approaching hands, inwardly torn between frustration and mild amusement at the thought that the man _certainly_ didn't mind the waste of a rather significant amount of napkins when it came to the state of his flatmate's likely scalded delicate bits.

Plucking the items from the blond's grip, he dabbed at himself with quick efficiency, hissing at the thankfully distracting sensation of what promised to be an altogether inconvenient burn. Satisfied with his efforts, he placed the napkins alongside his now-empty cup, pushing to his feet with a low sound of discomfort. Taking his coat from where it lay draped across the back of his chair, he shrugged it on, nodding at the table. "You go on and have that packed up for takeaway, I'll just settle up the bill and meet you at the flat."

Without waiting for a response, he swept through the assorted chairs and tables, heading for the cashier with an almost audible sigh of relief. Tab paid, he made good his escape, already halfway through plotting his next course of action.

It seemed that his continued surveillance would require that he prepare himself for the potentially disastrous effects of his friend's actions, lest he be similarly undone in the future.

He would simply have to run any possible scenarios through on his own, preferably during a time when he was unlikely to be disturbed.

Besides that, a cool soak in the tub sounded absolutely _divine_ when one considered the still-present tingling of his abused skin.

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Well, that's three. Hooray. There will be a break in this now, as I have a LOT that must be done oh, YESTERDAY. Thanks for reading, comments are love. 


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